


Something Blue

by acertaindefenseattorney



Category: Doctor Who, Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Crossover, Gen, M/M, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-11
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-14 00:27:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acertaindefenseattorney/pseuds/acertaindefenseattorney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Wright,’ he’s saying, ‘this is important. Think. You say you grew up in the suburbs, so tell me; who were your neighbours? What were the names of your foster parents? What is your earliest memory?’	</p><p>*</p><p>I've been wanting to write about Phoenix as a fobwatched incarnation of the Doctor for some time. He doesn't quite make sense to me; everyone else has a family, some background, but where's his? Also, lot of blue. I thought I'd never get round to it, but then GS5 was announced and lo, a chain dangling from his waistcoat pocket. Of course, I'm delighted that it turns out to be Trucy's locket, buuuuut ... </p><p>There is one other thing it could be, if you squint.</p><p>SO! Here goes nothing.</p><p>(Obviously, I'm going to have to mess with the canon lore of both fandoms a little bit to make this work. Also, vast amounts of inspiration taken from 'Being Human' and 'Utopia', given the basis of this whole thing came entirely from them.)</p><p>(As far as pairings go, there's mention of Miles/Phoenix, there will probably be mention of others as I go, but they're not really the focus here.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Blue

‘Where were you born?’

‘LA. Same as you.’

‘Yes, Wright, but _where_ in LA?’

 

And there is that pause.

 

Phoenix shrugs one shoulder, he brushes one hand back through the hair at the nape of his neck, makes a face. 

‘Well, I don’t know. In a hospital, I guess.’

‘But you don’t know which hospital.’

‘I don’t know! I never knew my parents, I’ve never exactly had anyone to ask.’

‘You must have a birth certificate. You must have _seen_ it.’

 

And there’s that pause again.

 

‘Before you met me ... before we were in school together. Where did you live? You didn’t start there until we were both nine years old, I can recall that much myself.’

 

And again.

Phoenix is looking down, now. There’s that same look on his face, that defensive, deliberate look of _why should it matter?_ , coupled with that look in his eyes, the kind he gets in court when he realises something dangerous one beat before the prosecution reveals it. 

 

‘I was ...’ he begins, voice quiet – but he trails off before getting anywhere, giving Edgeworth a look which is sort of frightened, sort of wavering in confidence, but which had definitely been intended to be firm. He puffs out a breath through his nose, shakes his head. ‘I was in LA... I grew up in the suburbs. You _know_ that.’

‘But _where_?’ Edgeworth has a hold on both of his shoulders, now, and is face to face with him in a way that Edgeworths can rarely ever bring themselves to be face to face with anyone; moreover, he’s trying, deliberately, to make eye contact and hold it. (This is all really extremely odd. Phoenix doesn’t much like it. He especially doesn’t like the headache building in the base of his skull; no more than he likes the creeping fear that he might have to check his best friend cum occasional lover into a psychiatric institution sometime soon.)

‘Wright,’ he’s saying, ‘this is important. Think. You say you grew up in the suburbs, so tell me; who were your neighbours? What were the names of your foster parents? What is your _earliest_ memory?’

‘... I told you, I grew up in the sub-’

‘No! No. That’s not a memory, that’s a fact. That’s geography. I need a memory. Right now. Give me a memory.’

 

Phoenix is looking at him, and he can see him working, in there, inside that thick, spiky head of his. He can see the mechanisms turning. Much to his shame, he finds himself murmuring a short, small, ‘please.’ 

And Phoenix is going pale from the exertion of trying to call up a memory which isn’t there.

Eventually, he shakes his head.

‘I was ... found.’

A fact. Not a memory.

 

Later on, Edgeworth consults the pocket-watch in Phoenix’s suit pocket.

It says the same as always. _Not yet. Not ready yet, Miles Edgeworth_. In _Phoenix’s_ voice, and he could laugh, it’s so ridiculous, Miles Edgeworth, abandoning the power of logic, huddled in a dark room, listening to a pocket watch speak with his best friend cum occasional lover’s voice. Googling talking pocket-watches. 

 

He leaves. 


End file.
